Outside the church everybody shook hands and gave good wishes. Children and old people were all together. No one would have missed the mass. But now they chatted gayly and talked of the coming day, the young men loitering to capture some pretty girl and walk home with her. Mère Lunde stirred the fire and Denys put a great log on it, and on his own in the shop. The little girl’s window was hung with a fur curtain, for occasionally the wind found chinks to whistle through as it came from the great prairies beyond and brought the sound of writhing and sometimes crushed forests. But all was warmth within. Mère Lunde made a hot drink with wine and spices, and brought out her Christmas cake which she had not meant to cut until to-morrow. “But see, it is to-morrow already,” she said with her cheery laugh. She had devoted several prayers for her poor son’s soul and she was quite sure he was safe with the Blessed Virgin and now understood what heavenly life was like. “It was all so beautiful,” Renée said with a long breath of delight. “And the singing! I can hear it yet in the air.” “Thou must to bed, little one, for to-morrow will be a gay day,” said Gaspard, kissing her. “Mère, see that she is well tucked in, for the night is cold.” Alas! for all the precaution the little girl woke up with a strange hot feeling in her throat, and her head was heavy and seemed twice as large as ordinary. She tried to raise it, but everything in the room swam round. She gave a faint cry, but no one heard, for Mère Lunde was busy among pans and pots. “Come, little laggard!” cried a cheery voice. “The children are here with their étrennes.” These were little cakes with dried fruit dipped in maple syrup and thus coated over. The children carried them about to each other on Christmas morning. The only answer was a low moan. Uncle Gaspard leaned over the small bed. “Renée, Renée, what is it?” He raised her in his arms and was startled at her flushed face, her dulled eyes, her hot hands. “O mère,” he cried. “Come, the little one is very ill.” They looked at her, but she did not seem to know them, and moaned pitifully. “Something must be done. She has taken cold, I think, and has a hot fever.” Very few people called in a doctor in those days. Indeed, it would have been difficult to find him this morning. There were many excellent home-made remedies that all housewives put up in the autumn, compounded of roots and barks, some of them learned from the Indian women. “Poor child, poor _petite_, yes, she must be attended to at once. Get thy breakfast, m’sieu, while I make some comfort and aid for her. Yes, it is a fever.” “But what shall I do for her?” “Get me some ears of corn, good big ones.” “And leave her?” aghast at the thought. “Thou wilt not cure her by staring at her. She can take no harm for a few moments.”